


Cougar Tales

by lily_zen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, F/M, Fantasy, Humor, Mystery, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:17:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_zen/pseuds/lily_zen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean are sent to New Mexico after a series of mysterious animal maulings. They discover that someone's already looking into it, and decide to join forces for the duration of the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Cougar Tales**

**Prologue and Chapter One**

Author: Lily Zen

 

Rating: M

 

Warnings: None Yet

 

 

**Notes:**

 

(1) Cachorro de Zorro means “fox cub” in Spanish. It’s not a real town.

 

(2)Also, here is some information on the Leyak, which is today’s monster of choice.

 

“On Bali, a Leyak is a person who lives a seemingly normal life, except that at night he wanders on the cemetery where he steals the entrails of the corpses. If necessary, he will even take the entrails from sleeping people. These he uses to make a potion that allows him to change himself into a tiger.

They reputedly have the ability to change shape from a monkey to the demonlike figure of Rangda.” (Encyclopedia Mythica).

Naturally, I am taking some creative liberties with this concept. Should be fun!

(3) Myrina Batea really is mythically rumored to have defeated the gods of Atlantis. She was an Amazon queen, and the title of Myrina was henceforth passed down to all great Amazon queens after her death. I am blending different mythologies together for a purpose which will all become clear much, much later on. Possibly in the next story—yes, I already have plans for a sequel.

(4) Morrigan and Macha really are fae deities. Together with their sister Badb, they are known as the Morrigna. They are a triple goddess aspect, mainly for war, though Macha is also a mother goddess. Morrigan is usually closely associated with sovereignty, hence why I’ve made her the fae queen. Badb or Badb Catha is often said to take the form of a crow during battles and fly overhead, confusing the soldiers with magic so that her favored side would win.

(5) This story takes place during season two, but doesn’t really contain any spoilers for the season. There will be some angst-ridden Dean, but that’s about it.

 

 

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Supernatural. That’s Kripke’s and assorted other folks.

 

 

**Prologue**

 

It all started back in Ireland generations before I was born. My ancestors were hunting monsters before Ford invented the Model T. At least that’s what my Gran would say when I asked her about it. There may be some truth to that; who knows? All I know for sure is that every relative I’ve ever had died at the hands of a monster, and I probably will too.

 

_“You go on then. Run, girl. You’ll never escape the curse of the Kiernan name.”_

 

That’s what my Gran said to me the night I threw two duffels in the trunk of my brand-new-to-me Jetta and left the family land in my tire tracks. I’m still not sure if there’s an actual curse on my surname or if she was just being melodramatic. It is a fact though that all Kiernans die violently. Hell, even my Gran did.

 

I got the notice seven months ago…

 

Mary Beth Kiernan, the closest thing to a mother that I’d ever had, was found mauled by a cougar six feet from her back door.

 

Of course, that’s just the official report. Cougars don’t normally come so close to civilization to hunt, and they don’t typically attack humans unless they’re feeling threatened or if the human in question is already injured.

 

I haven’t been able to go out to the family land yet. Couldn’t bring myself to open up that can of worms—I even missed Gran’s funeral. I had Gran’s lawyer clean out the perishables from the house and lock everything up. As the last living Kiernan, everything goes to me.

 

I’ve been keeping an eye on the local papers though.

 

There’ve been three other cougar attacks since. One every other month.

 

I know there’s a job out there. I feel it in my bones the same way I do when I know a storm’s coming. Problem is that I don’t know any other hunters. That was my Gran’s department, and my father’s—hell, even my Gramps’. It was a life I’d tried to avoid in so many different ways.

 

Now it looks like I’m going to have to take up the family mantle whether I want to or not. Hopefully my skills aren’t too rusty.

 

 

Hunter Myrina Kiernan closed the door on her tiny Los Angeles studio apartment, and simultaneously closed the door on that phase of her life. She left the key with the building manager and headed outside where a U-Haul was parked by the curb.

 

It was goodbye city smog and lost in the crowd, hello small town.

 

Hunter lit up a cigarette once she slid in the driver’s seat, brushed her sleek, urbanely cut hair behind her ear, and prayed that it wouldn’t rain on the way to New Mexico.

 

 

**Chapter One**

She pulled into town at noon on a Sunday and had the benefit of making a scene. Everyone was leaving church—the God-fearing folk, anyway—and watched her U-Haul park itself on 2nd Street, outside of Chris Redwing’s law office.

 

Chris came out with a huge grin on his dark Pueblo face, dressed in a suit way too fancy for such a small town. “Why, if it isn’t little Miss Hunter, blowing into town like a tumbleweed! Never thought I’d see your pretty face again.”

 

Hunter jumped out of the truck, a smile sliding over her features. “And what about you, College Kid? I thought you were leaving this place in your dust and never looking back?”

 

Man and woman locked eyes, remembering a time when they were just boy and girl, trading hot kisses in the back of a pick-up between frantic whispers of wishes and dreams.

 

“I went,” Chris finally replied, running a hand over his short hair, “Did my time, had some fun, but in the end it just didn’t suit me.”

 

Hunter nodded because she did understand. At first L.A. had been exciting, but like any novelty, the fascination eventually wore off. She’d grown tired of the noise and the people and her dead-end job editing books. In a strange way, the case might have been a blessing.

 

Before an awkward silence could settle over the one-time sweethearts, Hunter cleared her throat. “I, uh, need to get the keys to Gran’s place,” she said. Chris looked startled by the abrupt subject change, and visibly shook himself back into business mode. “Oh, yeah, of course. Come on in while I get ‘em,” he replied.

 

She slipped past him into the small, air-conditioned office, breathing a short sigh of relief as the temperature dropped, and pretended not to notice that Chris Redwing was checking her out. “Damn, girl,” he whistled, ruining her efforts, “You look great—haven’t aged a day. I can still see you walking down the hall at school, grinning like the cat who got the cream ‘cause you convinced Mr. Franklin to bump your grade up.” He shook his head while he pulled an envelope out of his desk, laughing to himself, and shook out three keys. “Front door, back door, garage door.”

 

Hunter nodded and took the keys, slipping them in her jacket pocket. “Thanks, Chris.”

 

“No problem,” he responded with that ever-present grin, “Oh, and don’t forget your Gran.”

 

“My Gran?”

 

Chris Redwing reached behind him and pulled what she’d thought was a vase off the shelf. “You didn’t send the payment for internment,” he told her, and she passed a hand over her hair in exasperation.

 

“Jesus, I knew I forgot something,” she sighed, “Well, thanks for holding onto her for me.”

 

“No problem. Figured you’d have to come get her things in order eventually. So, you stayin’ for good or are you putting the house up on the market?” Chris asked while they ambled back out the door.

 

“I have some things to take care of first, but I think I’ll be putting it up for sale after awhile,” Hunter replied, “After all, it’s just me, and I don’t really need that kind of commitment.”

 

“You Kiernans, always with your itchy feet,” Chris sighed.

 

 

Hunter drove the U-Haul through the arches over the driveway after a treacherous journey up into the hills and parked in front of the garage. The house was new, built in the nineties to replace the old ramshackle place that had been there since the forties, in that pretty nouveau-pueblo style.

 

Gran had wanted something nicer after Pa passed on, so she’d liquidated his business, seeing no reason to hold onto something with no one to give it to, and hired contractors to build her dream home. The move into the new house had been a pain, what with Seth, Hunter’s daddy, out of town on a job. Still, the two women had buckled down and done the heavy-lifting by themselves.

 

Hunter swung out of the truck and unlocked the front door, her grandmother’s urn tucked under her arm. Feeling a strange sense of homecoming, she pushed open the thick front door and stepped inside.

 

It was eerily quiet, missing the noises Gran made as she puttered around the house, the hum of the air conditioner, the sound of the radio as Gran rocked out to Led Zeppelin, Janis Joplin, and the Grateful Dead. Hunter sighed and set the urn down on the coffee table while she went to turn on the air.

 

Nothing looked any different from when she was twenty years old and hit the ground running like her ass was on fire. It looked like Gran could walk in at any minute and start in on her. _“Hunter, you get your ass going on those dishes. I don’t want to hear none of your feminist nonsense about gender stereotypes. Your daddy’s been on the road for three months and deserves some rest. …Now, what’cha want for supper? I got fixings for chili or steak.”_

Hunter kicked off her shoes in the middle of the living room like it had the power to dispel the ghost of her grandmother from her mind, and stretched out on the cool leather couch just to rest a spell before she started bringing in her things.

 

She was out before her head hit the cushion.

 

 

The Winchesters didn’t usually travel south for a gig. There were other hunters out that way and bigger fish to fry, but Ellen had asked so nicely. _“This woman, Mary Beth Kiernan, she was a friend’s momma. I feel I owe it to him to at least send somebody to check it out. Boys, I’m serious. I’d even go myself if I could get away from the Roadhouse for awhile.”_

 

So there they were, turning the Impala into the parking lot of La Playa Motel in Cachorro de Zorro, New Mexico. It was the only motel in town besides a family-owned bed and breakfast on the outskirts of town.

 

At one in the morning, the sleepy little town was all packed up and shut down besides a few rowdy taverns and the motel. Dean flicked Sam’s nose to wake him up, and when his brother leveled a grumpy stare at him, grinned. “Fly on your nose,” he said by way of excuse.

 

“Bullshit,” Sam stated and sat up straight, “We here?”

 

“Yep,” Dean replied, popping the ‘p.’ He looked around, unimpressed with his surroundings, and got out of the car. “I’ll get us a room.”

 

Sam got out of the car to stretch out sleeping limbs and a stiff back while he waited.

 

Dean was back ten minutes later, scowling.

 

“What’s your problem?” Sam asked casually.

 

“Why do people always think we’re gay?” Dean barked in lieu of answering, which made Sam laugh.

 

“Maybe it’s ‘cause you’re just so damn pretty, Dean. Don’t be mad at them—blame your genetics.”

 

“Fuck you,” the elder Winchester replied.

 

Sam just laughed harder. “Homophobe.”

 

“Hey, I don’t have any issues with gays. I just have issues with people thinking _I’m_ gay. I like chicks. _Pussy_. People in a town this small start gossiping about the gay guys coming through town, I won’t be getting any, and that’ll just put me in a shitty mood, Sammy. You don’t want to be stuck in a car with me while I’m pissed off.” 

 

Knowing he couldn’t reason with Dean on the subject, Sam shook his head and went to pull his things out of the trunk. They had some strange cougar killings to investigate.

 

 

Hunter woke up on the couch with a crick in her neck and the eerie sense that someone had been whispering in her ear while she’d been sleeping. Things like that had always happened to Hunter as far back as she could remember. She had learned to simply disregard them as a fanciful imagination.

 

She spent the morning unloading boxes from the truck and depositing them in their proper locations, pulling out her simplistic Ikea furniture and storing it in the garage, and then she showered, changed, and drove into Albuquerque to drop off the U-Haul.

 

There it was that Hunter hesitated, walking away from the store in Diesel jeans, an Express blazer, and heeled boots she’d got on clearance from Sak’s. In other words, she looked every inch the rich, city-girl and nothing at all like anyone around her. She was unsure if she should just go pick up a rental or if it would be cheaper to buy a car.

 

Eventually she decided to think on it over lunch and headed down the street, following her nose towards deliciousness.

 

Then the wind shifted and the smell of mint, comfrey, and ginger invaded her senses. Hunter stopped in her tracks, her head turning without her direction, and when she opened her eyes again, she was staring at a small SUV with a Kia logo on the grill sitting in a pharmacy parking lot. The sticker price stated five thousand or best offer.

 

Used to her uncanny luck, Hunter just grinned, sat down next to the SUV, and proceeded to dial the number.

 

 

The Winchesters had spent their first morning in Cachorro de Zorro in a completely different fashion from the Kiernan girl. They had gone around town interviewing the families of the deceased claiming they were from a wildlife foundation and snatched the autopsy reports from the nearby morgue.

 

It was early evening when they got around to the Kiernan case and made their way out to the house. Dean whistled as they started pulling up to the property. “Nice digs.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam replied, “According to the locals, the Kiernan family’s been here for years, though they travel a lot as well. Carl Kiernan owned a local body shop until he died in ’98—hunting accident. His wife, Mary Beth, sold the place and remodeled after. She’s our vic. One son, Seth Kiernan, vanished in ’04, pronounced dead in ’05. And with that we come to Hunter Kiernan, twenty-five, purported wild child and sole inheritor. Just got back in town yesterday.”

 

“And you know all this how?” Dean questioned.

 

“It’s a small town, Dean. People talk, especially when wayward children come meandering home.”

 

“And this Seth guy was a hunter?”

 

“Looks like. I don’t know how else Ellen would know him.”

 

“Alright. Well, let’s do this then.”

 

Both brothers stepped out of the car, eyeing the black Kia Sportage parked in the driveway, and listening to Metallica spill out of the house and shake the windows in their casings. A quick game of rock-paper-scissors decided who would knock on the door. Dean cursed under his breath when Sam won yet again and rang the doorbell. When a minute passed and no one answered, he pounded his fist on the door. Still no answer.

 

Then they both heard it, almost completely smothered by the rock music—the unmistakable sound of gunshots. They raced around to the back of the house, trampling Mary Beth’s flower beds and leaping over the fence. Following the noise through a small area with long grass, they found a girl dressed in expensive jeans and a black silk tank top loading a shotgun with an ease that suggested long-familiarity.

 

Her stance was perfect as she took aim and shot the shit out of one of the cans hanging on a giant saguaro. When she was done, Sam noticed she was humming ‘Enter Sandman’ under her breath. He cleared his throat to get her attention and was rewarded with having the girl and gun swing towards him.

 

“Can I help you?” she asked in a contralto voice.

 

“Hunter Kiernan?” Sam asked, holding up his hands in the universal I’m-harmless gesture.

 

“Yes, that’d be me. Now who are you?” Despite the gun being pointed at them, her voice held a thread of humor in it.

 

“I’m Sam Kidd. This is Dean Cassidy. We’re—“

 

She cut him off with raised brows. “Like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? That’s gotta be ironic.”

 

“You’ve got no idea,” Dean drawled with his hands held like Sam’s, “We’re from New Mexico Animal Control. Do you have time for some questions?”

 

“And can you put the gun down?” Sam added.

 

The girl laughed and lowered her weapon. “Sure thing.”

 

It was then that the boys really had to opportunity to size up Hunter Kiernan, and they did so speculatively and perhaps with a small touch of male appreciation. She was moderately tall, around five-foot-seven, estimating that her heels were three inches high, and had a trim figure that still somehow managed to look lush and curvaceous in all the right ways. Her hair was such a dark brown that most people probably said it was black, cut short in a stylish angled bob. The girl had the peaches and cream skin one would expect of the Irish. Still, the most interesting thing about her was her eyes—her papers said they were hazel, but they were more gold than anything else.

 

“Come on,” Hunter beckoned, “If you stop staring we can go sit in the nice air-conditioned house and have some tea. You can ask all the questions you want just as easily in there as out here. Besides, I gotta check on supper.” She grabbed the box of shells she’d been using and loped off, as easy in her heels as most would be in sneakers.

 

 

Hunter didn’t like being snuck up on, and she especially didn’t like being surprised by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in her own back yard. As she walked, she surreptitiously reloaded her shotgun.

 

She wanted to get to the house for the protection it offered.

 

Every hunter worth a damn knew to lay salt lines, but Gran had gone one step up from that when she’d built the new house. The salt was built in now, trapped in thin tubes under the foundation and the floors—it was in every doorway throughout the house, and wrapped around the window casings in the walls. She’d even tested it a couple times. To top it off, there were protective seals and banishment wards on the inside of the walls.

 

The only supes sliding through her door weren’t very common around those parts.

 

Hunter stepped over the threshold with an internal sigh of relief, and then she held her breath as Batman and Robin followed suit. The dark-haired one closed the door behind him with a smile.

 

“Have a seat, boys,” Hunter nodded, indicating the kitchen table, “I’ll be right back with that tea.” Like she actually gave a damn about serving strangers some fucking tea. What she did give a damn about was that nobody had burst into flames upon entering the house. Still, there were things that could get through, and the prudent side of her wanted to take her shotgun into the kitchen with her.

 

…She set it just inside the doorway and contented herself with slipping a silver switchblade from its hiding spot in the bread box into her back pocket.

 

Hunter poured three glasses of sweet tea and checked on her small pot of chili. She brought Cassidy and Kid their drinks, held up her index finger, and took her glass with her into the living room so she could turn down the music.

 

“Alright,” she said when she slumped into a chair and sipped her tea, “What ya’ll want to ask me?”

 

“It’s about the uh…cougar attack,” Sam began slowly, “We understand this may be difficult for you, but we have to ask these things. There’s lives at stake here.”

 

“Mm-hm.” Hunter nodded slowly. “Go ahead, then.”

 

“You weren’t here at the time of the attack, were you?” Dean asked her.

 

“Nope. I was still in L.A., and as you can see, we don’t have many neighbors up here.” In fact the closest neighbor was half-way down the hill, which was closer to a mountain than a hill. “I doubt you’ll find any witnesses. Nobody else did.”

 

“Did you see the condition of your grandmother’s body prior to burial?” That time it was Sam who spoke.

 

“Nope. And she was cremated, not buried.”

 

“Have you noticed anything odd around the house or yard?” Dean asked, “Cold spots, flickering lights, strange noises?”

 

And with that one question the alarm bells in her head shrieked once more and went silent. They were hunters.

 

Hunter relaxed back in her chair even more. “Ya’ll shouldn’t try to play a player,” she told them and chuckled. They feigned confusion with furrowed brows and bemused smiles. “You’re hunters.”

 

Both men looked startled and suspicious by her matter-of-fact tone.

 

“It’s cool,” she continued, “I’ve got this. You can move on to the next big bad wolf. I won’t even ask you for your real names, because I really don’t give a shit. We’ve both got more important things to worry about.” Just like that, Hunter stood up and moved to turn off the burner on the stove. “Really, guys, I appreciate you coming all this way to check it out, but it’s kind of a family thing. Know what I mean?”

 

She stirred the chili on the stove, feeling momentarily bad that she wasn’t going to offer them any. Gran would’ve had her hide. Reminding herself that Gran wasn’t around, could never tear a strip out of her again, Hunter refocused on the men, eyebrows raised.

 

If anything, they looked gobsmacked. Hunter smiled widely, full lips curving upwards to show genuine enjoyment. “Let me walk you out.”

 

It seemed that they stood automatically and she guided them each with a hand on their backs right out the front door. “You boys be careful now. Lots of dangerous monsters out there. Gives me the heebies.” With that, Hunter shut the door behind them, turning the locks into place, and went to eat her chili.

 

 

“Did we just get booted off a case by a girl in Diesel jeans?” Dean asked when they were settled in the front seats of the Impala.

 

Sam snorted through his nose. “And how do you know they were Diesel jeans? Dean, you got some hobbies I don’t know about?”

 

Dean casually punched his brother in the arm. “No. I was looking at her ass while she was walking. The label said ‘Diesel.’ There was this one girl, way back when…I kind of inadvertently found out that Diesel makes designer jeans from her. Shut up, Sam. Quit looking at me like that.”

 

The younger Winchester just continued to stare at his brother like he’d just sung the lyrics to ‘Copa Cabana.’ Dean growled and started up the car, and they peeled out of the driveway and began the slow drive back down to normal altitudes.

 

“So are we dropping the case?” Sam asked.

 

“No way,” Dean replied, “She may be a hunter’s kid. Doesn’t mean she can hunt, especially not in those shoes she was wearing.” They both laughed then.

 

 

**TBC…**

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Cougar Tales**

**Chapter Two**

Author: Lily Zen

 

Rating: M

 

Warnings: Cussing

 

Notes: This is a short one. Sorry.

 

Disclaimer: Supernatural isn’t mine. Hunter and Hannah, and all other original stuff, like the town Cachorro de Zorro, is.

 

The dreams came like they always did—whispers of things she’d never heard and the arms of a mother she’d never known. Hunter dreamt of running on four legs and killing with her teeth.

 

She woke up panting in her childhood bed.

 

It was too short for her now, the full sized mattress just not enough given the way that she slept. Her feet were hanging off the edge of the bed. Hunter groaned and kicked off her blankets so that they piled on the wood floor, and then she rolled out of bed to exercise.

 

At first it was stretching, then push-ups and crunches; a few yoga poses and then kickboxing. If it weren’t so damned hot outside, she’d run a few miles. As it was, she hopped on her grandmother’s treadmill.

 

Sometimes being the daughter in a family of hunters really sucked.

 

Hunter had been training her whole life, learning how to survive in a fight, because that’s what Kiernans did. Even in L.A. the habit had persisted—she literally couldn’t sleep unless she’d exercised that day.

 

She supposed that was why she was awake now at midnight.

 

“Might as well do something productive,” she mumbled to herself while she wiped the sweat from her face with a towel. With that she showered, taking care to use products that wouldn’t leave a heavy scent, and then she dressed from head to toe in black, armed up to her eyeteeth with weapons, and left to go check out the other crime scenes.

 

The closest one was at the old Mason property down in the valley. Poor ol’ J.P. was out back feeding his horses—he liked to sneak them apples even though the Missus disapproved, so he’d do it after she settled in for the night. He always liked those damn horses better than any of his kids—not that Hunter blamed him. She’d gone to school with some of his kids—they had six; stupid Catholics—and had no problem saying that they were pretty awful. Unruly, spoiled rotten, and mean to boot.

 

Hunter parked the Sportage about a quarter mile away from the property on a service road that nobody used anymore, and then hiked to the ranch, sneaking through the woods like she used to when she was a little girl. She didn’t turn on her flashlight, preferring to let her eyes adjust to the dark. The backpack she’d strapped on held the basics—salt, lighter fluid, spray paint—and some not-so-basic items like a small hand-written volume full of time-tested family rituals and remedies, a bag full of sliced apples, gloves, and plastic baggies.

 

Her father hadn’t believed in taking precautions against forensics, but Hunter really didn’t see any reason to leave fingerprints at the scene. The baggies were just in case she found something that the cops missed.

 

The horses began whinnying when she snuck into the stable, and she began to hastily ply them with apples and soothe their fear. Most domesticated animals were uncomfortable around her unless they had time to learn her scent. After awhile the horses settled back down into huffing through their noses and flicking their tails.

 

She began poking around the stable, even going so far as to turn her flashlight on. The death scene had been cleaned up, obviously, as it was a few months ago, but she thought to check less obvious spaces, like the cracks between the stalls.

 

It would have been helpful then to know some powerful witches trained in the old ways, but that was neither here nor there, and according to her grandfather, old wives tales far removed from the truth. He used to tell her stories of naturally gifted men and women so powerful that they could make the earth tell the stories of the deaths it had witnessed.

 

Hunter sighed in frustration on her hands and knees, scrabbling around in dust and dirt like she’d sworn never to do again…

 

And that was when she found it—a small tuft of stringy material caught in a stall hinge. Using one of her gloves and a baggy, Hunter pocketed the material, bade soft goodbyes to Victory, Baby, and Dynamite, and left as quietly as she’d come.

 

In the car, Hunter carefully examined her find with a narrowed, speculative gaze.

 

It looked like some kind of fur, except no cougar she’d ever seen had red-orange fur. She wondered if there was anything similar at the other scenes. Mid-thought, her hand reached up and turned the key in the ignition. Hunter drove to the other scenes, but could not find anything else like the fur she’d found at the third murder scene.

 

By the time she’d finished checking the last site, it was close to dawn. Hunter headed home dirty and exhausted, but with resolve fisted in her gut. Tomorrow she would have to find a way to identify the fur, and when the sun set she had some digging to do. There was no way around it—she had to see the autopsy reports herself. It was time to bust out the lock picks.

 

 

Someone was banging on the door, Hunter realized in her sleep. Without even opening her eyes, she rolled over in bed and snugged a pillow over her ears.

 

The noise stopped and her body relaxed back into a deep sleep.

 

“What the fuck, bitch?”

 

Hunter shot straight up in bed, already pointing a nine millimeter Smith and Wesson at the doorway.

 

The woman leaned against the doorjamb continued as though guns were commonplace in her life. “You come rolling back into town and I don’t get so much as a ‘hello.’ Well, fuck you very much, Myrina.”

 

Hunter blinked and wiped the crusties out of her eyes with her free hand. “Hannah?”

 

“Who the fuck else would it be? Now put the goddamn gun down.”

 

She eyed the dark haired woman in her house and finally flicked the safety back on. The gun went on the nightstand and her arms flung wide. A genuinely happy smile broke out on her face. “Well, get over here, girl, and give me a hug!”

 

It took two strides for Hannah to fling herself onto the mattress and into Hunter’s arms. They tumbled onto the mattress giggling like small children, squeezing each other tightly.

 

Hannah Pahona was Gran’s great niece, which meant that Hunter and Hannah were related—second cousins or something like that—and had been best friends since they were in diapers. Hunter, though it didn’t show very much in her coloring, was nearly a quarter American Indian. Gran had been full-blooded, her maiden name Pahona, just like Hannah.

 

There was a time when the girls were damn near inseparable. They’d both been born into the life, trained by the best hunters their whole lives, but where Hunter had run, Hannah had embraced.

 

Hannah’s blood ran thick with the power of ancient shamans, and she’d manifested a talent for it around puberty. It made her a very good hunter.

 

The girls broke away, laughing when Hannah punched Hunter on the arm playfully. “Can’t believe you didn’t call!” She grinned widely, white teeth flashing in the midst of dark, tanned skin.

 

“How was I to know you were in town?” Hunter replied, propping herself up on her elbows.

 

“Mm, I suppose that’s true. I was in Belize for awhile studying with another shaman. He taught me some very cool stuff,” Hannah admitted, “But I got homesick. I missed Tex-Mex food and speaking English and sleeping in a room that’s not on stilts. Been home for a few weeks now. Of course, I was gone this past week taking care of a poltergeist in Arizona. I just got back last night and was talking to Chris Redwing at the market this morning, and who do you think I hear is back in town? Why, it’s my platonic life-partner, Myrina. Naturally, I drove right over.”

 

Hunter smiled at the name—Hannah was the only person who’d ever chosen to call her by her middle name. “How’d you get in? You pick the locks?”

 

“Damn right. I wouldn’t have had to if you’d just opened the fucking door.”

 

“I was sleeping.” Hunter almost pouted. Her lips twitched like she wanted to, but at the last moment, stopped herself because she remembered her father barking ‘hunters don’t pout’ at her in the second grade on one of his rare trips home.

 

“Obviously,” Hannah shot back, gesturing at the other woman’s pajamas of choice—an old Warriors tee shirt and a pair of black shorts that might have been kleptoed from an ex-boyfriend.

 

“Fuck you. Are you saying I lack sleep-clothes style? Take your fashion advice elsewhere, Ms. My-Jeans-Have-Patches.” She gestured casually at Hannah’s jeans that did, indeed, have patches on them in various spots where holes had formed over time…and the material didn’t even match.

 

“Fuck you right back,” Hannah laughed.

 

“Baby, you know how I like it,” Hunter purred, and both girls laughed.

 

“So, what’re you doing back?” Hannah asked when they had calmed themselves.

 

“Well, you know about Gran,” Hunter began, and Hannah nodded in the affirmative, “I’ve been keeping an eye on things around here. There have been other deaths like it—cougar attacks in place there shouldn’t be. It’s suspicious enough that I figured I’d take a look at it. Maybe pack up Gran’s things, figure out what I want to do with this place. It’d be nice to have a property that’s already paid off, but I don’t know if I want to stay here.”

 

“You going back to L.A. then?” the other woman questioned as she got off the bed and started pulling clothes out of the boxes.

 

“No. No. Hell no,” Hunter replied and sat up. She’d packed away that life for good, and couldn’t fathom starting like that again. With nothing but a high school diploma and the economy taking a swan-dive, work was scarce. The only reason she’d had a job was that she’d worked her way up from a receptionist and filled in the gaps with odd jobs.

 

“So what then?”

 

“No clue. I might travel for awhile. That would be ideal,” she stated.

 

“Mm. So, this gig, got any leads?” Hannah tossed a pair of skinny jeans on the bed, though she cocked a brow at the label, and a chambray shirtdress. Then she started looking through Hunter’s shoes.

 

Hunter, taking the unsaid cue, got up out of bed and found some underwear and a bra. She stripped and dressed without fuss and Hannah did not look up from her perusal of the shoes. “Maybe,” she replied as she buttoned up the pants, “I found fur in J.P.’s stable. I don’t know what kind yet—gotta find some way to get it looked at.”

 

“Okay, so we’re looking for a shifter, somebody who kills wearing fur, fake or not, or an actual animal. I know this zoologist in Albuquerque. You want me to give him a call?” Hannah asked while she pulled a pair of brown knee-high boots out of a box and tossed them on the bed. Hunter went and found socks.

 

“Yeah, that’d be good,” she nodded while she sat down to pull on a pair of white ankle socks and the brown suede boots.

 

“Done and done,” Hannah added as she walked out of the room, already flipping open her cell phone, “Oh, and eat fast, Myrina. It’s already eleven. We’re wasting daylight.”

 

And that was how Hannah Pahona started working with Hunter Kiernan.

 

 

**TBC…**

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Cougar Tales**

**Chapter Three**

Author: Lily Zen

 

Rating: M

 

Warnings: Cussing

 

Notes: Want insights into my thoughts, life, and other writing projects? Follow me on Twitter (0tigerlily0). Just remove the (dot)s and replace with .

 

Disclaimer: Supernatural isn’t mine.

 

Hunter took her toast with them in Hannah’s borrowed pick-up and drank her coffee from a travel mug. She acknowledged that she really needed to shop for more than coffee, bread, and butter, but she couldn’t find the time. The stuff she’d used to make the chili had all been canned, the meat bought at the convenience store when she filled up her gas tank.

 

Hannah complained loudly that the only food she had in the house after last night’s chili was eaten was bread. “There are only so many ways to eat bread!” she cried, “A girl can’t get by on carbs alone!”

 

Driving to Albuquerque sucked. The truck’s suspension was awful and she felt every bump in the road, and Hannah sang boisterously along with some Latin rock group she claimed were going to be huge. Now, it wasn’t that Hannah couldn’t sing—she could—but every once in awhile her voice would hit a wrong note. It was the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard for Hunter. In addition, she was still tired as all hell.

 

Hannah’s zoologist friend had agreed to meet with them on his break, and Hannah drove like a maniac to get there on time, listening intently to her CB radio as truckers dropped helpful hints about where the cops were sitting. “I am so glad I got my dad to loan me his truck today. This radio is amazing.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Hunter replied, slipping on her dark-tinted sunglasses.

 

They whipped into the zoo parking lot in record time. Vince Montgomery met them at the gate and they rode in a little golf cart to his lab. He was a good-looking man in his mid-thirties with light brown hair that was starting to recede and skin that said he didn’t believe in sunscreen, but he had the prettiest blue eyes Hunter had ever seen and if he were a woman his lips would have been called DSL’s.

 

“So Hannah tells me that something’s been going after your goats, and you found some kind of fur sample?”

 

Hunter shot the dark haired woman a look that clearly read ‘goats?’ She shrugged minutely. “That’s right. Doesn’t look like cougar or coyote. I was hoping you could take a look at it.”

 

The cart pulled up outside of a building that was labeled for employees only. “Not a problem, sweetheart.”

 

Vince had one of those rolling chairs in his lab. Hannah and Hunter were forced to stand while he loaded Hunter’s sample onto a slide and checked it out under the microscope. “It’s real fur. Definitely. You can see the root. You’re right, totally not cougar or coyote. It has too much orange in it for either. Hm…even if I sent it out to the lab, it would take a few weeks to get the DNA work-up on it. Let me see if I can do some visual comparisons. It’ll take me a day or two. That alright?”

 

“Just fine with me,” Hunter grinned, “Thanks so much.”

 

“Not a problem. I like a mystery just as much as the next man. Should I just call Hannah with the results?” Vince asked.

 

Hannah answered for her friend, “Yeah, that’d be just great, Vince. Thanks.”

 

 

Meanwhile, the Winchester brothers, true to form, hadn’t listened to a goddamn word Hunter had said to them. They were still in town and making their way to all the crime scenes, looking for clues that the cops may have missed. Of course, they didn’t know that Hunter had already been and gone, and found the only overlooked evidence.

 

By mid-afternoon both Sam and Dean were frustrated and starving, so they headed into a bar and grill that looked to be in their price range. Dean slouched in a chair near the back of the room and furtively thanked god that the place had the A/C cranking. Then both of them focused intently on the small menu.

 

“So what can I get ya’ll?” A woman drawled, and Sam looked up from his perusal of the menu wearing his I’m-a-nice-guy-talk-to-me smile.

 

“What’s good?” he asked.

 

The waitress, a petite, middle aged woman named Emma, just rolled her eyes. “Baby, this is a bar. We only serve food so the customers don’t puke on the floor.”

 

Sam grimaced at the imagery, and Dean sniggered at his brother.

 

“Aw, now Emma, you know that’s not entirely true,” another woman’s voice interrupted, “You also serve food so you can see my smiling face in the daytime.”

 

Emma turned to face the other woman, her hip cocked saucily. “Well, I’ll be,” she began, “Hannah, it’s good to see you, girl. We been missing you on karaoke night—you’re one of the few that can carry a tune.” She grinned, her bright pink pout stretching to reveal tiny white teeth.

 

“Yeah, well I’ll try to make it up to you,” Hannah replied as she began backing away, “Oh, and the burgers are pretty good, but Raul makes some mean Tex-Mex. I’d take the enchiladas any day.”

 

“Thanks!” Sam called out as she walked away, waving casually over her shoulder.

 

Sam was placing his order—an order Dean was sure that _he_ was going to end up regretting—when he noticed Dean’s eyes narrow. Then he saw why as Hunter Kiernan strolled past and took the seat across from Hannah.

 

Dean ordered his usual at almost every place they ate at, and when Emma walked away to get the girls’ order, he leaned over the table and asked. “So what do you think? You think she’s found anything?”

 

Sam shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea. Go ask her.”

 

“Maybe I will.”

 

“Maybe you should.”

 

“Fine then.”

 

“Fine.”

 

They waited tensely until Emma walked over towards the kitchen, but when Dean made no move to stand, Sam snickered. “You’re scared of her, aren’t you? Just a little bit.”

 

“Am not.”

 

“Are too. She totally intimidated you with the way she just brushed you off. Admit it.”

 

“…Maybe a little. She just seems kind of…”

 

Someone cleared their throat. “I swear to god, if you’re about to say ‘frigid,’ I’m going to shove the barrel of a rifle up your ass and pull the trigger.”

 

They looked up guilty at Hunter Kiernan, holding a large mug of beer in both hands. Dean tried a smile but it turned into more of a grimace than anything. “What I was going to say is ‘totally awesome and with a great sense of timing.’”

 

“That’s what I thought,” she responded smugly and helped herself to a seat at their table. “So what’s going on, kids? Taking a little vacay? ‘Cause there’s no way you’d be monster-poaching, would you?” Hunter took a moment to smooth her dark hair back into place and sip on her beer. “’Cause that’d just be rude.”

 

Sam looked at Dean, who looked guilty as sin itself, and took over the conversation, seeing as his normally talkative brother seemed at a loss for words. “Not poaching, but we thought…well, we came all this way. We might as well help. After all, if two heads are better, three must be the best.”

 

“Four,” Hunter replied with a sweet smile.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“There would be four heads, sweetheart. I’m already working with someone.”

 

“Oh.”

 

There was a moment of awkward silence, then Dean asked, “So, who?”

 

“Hannah!” Hunter shouted, “Come meet my new friends!”

 

The dark-skinned Native girl from earlier approached the table and grabbed the untouched mug. “Thought you were taking awhile. Hello, boys.” She smiled widely and sat in the last open chair. “How ya’ll liking Cachorro de Zorro?”

 

“It’s…” Dean began.

 

“Quaint,” Sam finished. However, at the exact same time, Hannah stated blandly, “A shithole? We know.” Hunter snickered as Sam hurriedly backpedaled, “No, no. Really it’s nice. Small. Friendly.”

 

“Jesus, this isn’t Mayberry,” Hunter laughed, shaking her head at his earnestness, “Stop being such a kiss-ass.” Dean laughed along with her, and then told her, “He can’t help it. He’s a people-pleaser.”

 

She glanced at Sam and said seriously, “That’s not a real good quality for a hunter to have. People aren’t always going to like you—that’s the way of it.”

 

Hannah jumped into the conversation quickly, before Hunter’s bluntness ruined the rapport they were building with the two brothers. “So you guys are hunters, I’m guessing.” Her words drew Sam’s attention away from whatever pithy response he’d been working up in his head. “Yes. You also?”

 

The Native woman nodded her head, and added, “Shaman, too. I’m multi-functional.” Dean quirked an eyebrow and then turned the look onto Hunter as though to say, ‘and you?’

 

Hunter grinned. “Not me. I’m a gunslinger, not a magic-user.”

 

The group’s only real magic user glanced over at her with a sly smile. “You don’t know what you’re missing out on. It makes hunting a piece of cake.” Hunter stuck out her tongue at Hannah, who responded in kind. “I prefer my weapons with a blade on them,” Hunter said to Sam and Dean. Silently, Dean emphatically agreed. “So, since we’re playing so nicely,” she continued, “How about we pool our resources?”

 

“That’d be great,” Sam stated with a friendly smile.

 

Hannah discreetly patted her cousin’s knee under the table, silently saying, ‘thanks.’ She knew it wasn’t easy for Hunter to open up to other people. The lifestyle both girls had been raised in had frowned upon such things. Therefore the olive branch they’d extended to the other hunters was definitely something to be acknowledged.

 

Of course, Hunter had to go and say, “You can start.” Just so nobody thought she was going soft or anything like that.

 

“Uh, okay,” Sam began, “Well, there’s not much evidence to go on. We took a look at the latest body. It definitely looked like it had been mauled by some kind of animal or creature. Nothing human could have inflicted that sort of damage.”

 

“We also went and checked out the crime scenes,” Dean added, and then shut his mouth quickly with a grin, eyes locked somewhere behind the girls. Emma was back with their food, and had apparently brought the girls’ order too. “Thank you.” Emma set their plates down with a practiced flourish, indicating many years of experience and possibly a background at a more high class establishment. She smiled, once again revealing her small, white teeth.

 

“Welcome, honey,” she responded, and then bent down to whisper to Hunter and Hannah. Whatever she said made Hannah laugh and Hunter eye them speculatively with a hint of mischief in her gaze. Then she shrugged and said out loud, “I don’t know, Em, these two are trouble.” Her tongue delicately wet her lower lip. “If I was lookin’ for a hook-up, maybe, but I’d be pissed if my dumb-ass ended up getting into trouble too.”

 

Emma laughed and said slowly, “Sweetheart, you’re always getting into trouble, boys or no.” The waitress ruffled Hunter’s hair, and her face took on the most perturbed expression. As soon as Emma walked away, she began smoothing her hair with her hands.

 

“I take it she thinks we’re hooking up?” Sam asked curiously, taking a bite of his burrito. Hannah shrugged apologetically and used her fork to eat her huevos rancheros. She swallowed. “Better that than she actually wonder what we’re doing.”

 

Hunter didn’t bother to comment, just concentrated on using her fork to cut up her enchiladas verdes. “Mm, delicious,” she moaned at the first bite.

 

“So you went to check out the scenes…” Hannah prompted.

 

“Yeah,” Dean picked up the conversation, “Nothing much there. Though the third vic’s daughter said she heard noises that night, like a huffing-growl. That’s the closest thing we got to a witness.”

 

Nodding thoughtfully, Hunter stated, “That coincides with the fur I found at J.P.’s.”

 

“You found fur?” Sam repeated.

 

“Yup, took it to a zoologist for identification. It was red-orange though—definitely not a cougar. Their fur doesn’t come in that color,” Hunter added knowingly. Their table was silent for awhile, eating food and digesting new information. In the end, everyone decided that nothing could be done until they heard back from Hannah’s zoologist friend. They traded phone numbers and Hannah drove Hunter home after lunch.

 

Just as Hunter was about to get out of the truck, Hannah mentioned casually, “You think the grave robberies are linked?”

 

“What grave robberies?” she asked, “There have been grave robberies?”

 

Hannah nodded gravely and with serious eyes said, “A whole bunch. They kept it out of the papers ‘cause everybody’s so appalled. So you think…?”

 

“Most likely. We’ll talk to Dean and Sam about it tomorrow. Maybe they’ll go dig around in the graveyard so we don’t have to.” Hunter chuckled lowly, and shut the door behind her.

 

“Go do some grocery shopping!” Hannah yelled as her friend’s back disappeared inside the door. Hunter just waggled her fingers over her shoulder, one in particular.

 

 

**TBC…**


	4. Chapter 4

**Cougar Tales**

**Chapter Four**

Author: Lily Zen

 

Rating: M

 

Warnings: Cussing

 

Disclaimer: Supernatural isn’t mine.

 

 

Alone at last, Hunter kicked off her boots and slid onto the couch. She was unused to being around so many people and found it tiresome. In California, she’d lived by herself and worked fairly independently for a long time. Being forced to work with others went against her solitary nature. It grated on her nerves and put tension in her shoulders, neck, and head.

 

She rubbed her temples tired, and then followed the line of pain that seemed to start behind her right eye, shoot through her sinuses, and slither all the way to the spot where her head met her neck and spine.

 

The pain pushed her to walk to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, though exhaustion made her feet drag. Hunter sighed, found the bottle of Tylenol, and took two. Shuffling across the hall, she simply curled up on her childhood bed and promptly fell asleep.

 

 

…Hm.

 

Someone was touching her. Gram?

 

Cool, gentle fingers were following the exact same line of pain—migraine headaches were a bitch—that her own fingers had traced earlier, and as those foreign fingers moved, sweet relief came to her. Hunter sighed.

 

Then it occurred to her that Gram was dead.

 

Eyes flying open, Hunter found herself face to face with a strange woman. A strange woman was in her bedroom. Her hand inched up under the pillow, where she’d stuffed her gun.

 

The woman shook her head slowly. Hunter felt frantically for her weapon to no avail. “You slept so deeply,” the woman intoned in a musical voice, “You didn’t even stir when I moved the weapon.” Fear filled Hunter up, stealing her deep, easy breaths. She scrambled gracelessly off the bed, and the woman let her.

 

“Who are you?” Hunter’s voice came out hard and with a slight growl to it, “What do you want?” She felt behind her for the light switch and turned it on. The woman blinked owlishly and frowned. She held up her hands in a gesture of surrender.

 

“Do not fear. I mean you no harm, Myrina.”

 

“My name is Hunter.”

 

The strange woman just shrugged, drawing attention to her wispy, near see-through dress, and the way it seemed ready to fall off of her slender form if she breathed wrong. The top part looked like white gauze, but it was infinitely thinner. It looked like an ancient design, pinned at her shoulders and tied with delicate ribbons down the wide, bell-like sleeves. A matching ribbon cinched the gauze at her waist. Underneath that was another dress of a slightly different cut and fabric, apparently to allow her some modesty. It was the palest pink she’d ever seen and cut in a simple sheath style, and almost as translucent as the top layer. Hunter would bet money on it that upon closer inspection you could see the curls at the apex of her legs.

 

Not that she looked. That’d be weird.

 

In short, the woman looked like nothing Hunter had ever seen before, and that was even without adding her flawless pale skin, her wavy brown hair that she was sure would nearly touch the floor when standing, elaborately braided and woven with ribbon and flowers. Her eyes were the coup de grace. They were the color of liquid gold, but there seemed to be three different shades around her very tiny pupils—the light had dilated them: the bright, orangey tone of real gold, a ring the color of fool’s gold or pyrite, and finally the palest gold that was still gold she had ever seen.

 

The woman practically screamed outsider, other…

 

Hunter thought frantically of the next available weapon.

 

“My name is Myrina Macha, and I am what you humans like to call a fairy.” The woman smiled quietly as though this was all the explanation Hunter needed. However, Hunter was a hunter (ironically), and as such she was even more suspicious than before.

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

Myrina Macha inclined her head in a regal nod of ascension, and added, “Though that is not a very accurate description. There are many different kinds of fairy, or fae as we call ourselves. I am shee.”

 

“What?”

 

“Shee.”

 

“Can you spell that?” Hunter frowned.

 

“S-I-D-H-E,” Myrina Macha responded obligingly.

 

“Okay…”

 

“I am also your mother.”

 

Silence reigned in the tiny room as Hunter grew thoughtful, suspicious, and then outright doubtful. Her shoulders began to shake slightly and her lips trembled and twitched. Finally, she gave up the battle and tipped her head back, laughing uproariously. She laughed so hard that she had to lean against the wall for support, clutching her stomach when it began to cramp.

 

Her laughter went on for a long time until she finally noticed that Myrina Macha was not laughing. She wasn’t even smiling. She was just sitting there on Hunter’s tiny bed, as calm and still as a statue. Hunter’s humor faded away, and she curled her lip in disgust. She hated lies, and one of such a personal nature was particularly heinous. “Yeah, right,” she spat, “What a tasteless fucking joke. Get real. Look, Myrina Macha, I appreciate you coming over here and trying to make me feel a little less like a bastard, but you are not my mother. That’s retarded. I would know if I was half-fairy.”

 

“Sidhe,” Myrina Macha corrected her, “We are the kings and queens and nobles of fairy.”

 

“Such an important distinction,” she shot back, sarcasm lacing every word.

 

“To be sure,” Myrina Macha replied seriously. After a slight pause she continued, “I understand your denial of my words. I have been a terrible mother to you. I left you in the human world, alone and without the knowledge necessary to defend yourself. Your skills have gone untrained and what little magic you possess as a half-breed has no doubt waned, atrophying without use like any limb might. Being away from fairy your whole life has no doubt affected you negatively. You have learned too many human things and not any fae. I know that I am a bad mother, but I also know that you were better off with Seth than in the mounds with me.” Her long, graceful fingers picked at her thin dress in a nervous fashion.

 

For her part, Hunter had gone from incredulous to offended to shocked as she began to let Myrina Macha’s words sink in. The clincher was when the fae woman casually dropped Seth’s name as though it was natural for her to do so.

 

“I have thought of you often,” Myrina Macha said, “You and your father. I have wondered how you fared, but I dare not try to use far-sight to see. This is the first time I have been sent into the human world since your birth, and I came to you post-haste. I named you Myrina, you know. It is a title that has been passed on in my family for thousands of years. The first was Myrina Batea, who fought the gods of Atlantis with naught but a hundred women warriors and won. Every female of her line since has been given the name Myrina. It was my only insistence when I left you with your father; that he name you Myrina.” She frowned. It was the first time she had shown any sort of real emotional response.

 

Hunter swallowed and cleared her throat. “He probably didn’t want me to get beat up on the playground.”

 

Myrina Macha’s frown cleared into a smile, the facial equivalent of the sun peeking through the clouds. “Yes, you are probably right. How silly of me not to consider such a thing.”

 

“Well, uh, Myrina Macha, why now? I mean, why are you here?” Hunter felt awkward and dirty next to a creature of such elegance, and wished she could go clean up. She had a feeling though that the fae would not be so understanding. There was an underlying urgency in her posture that belied her calm words and expression.

 

“You may simply call me Macha,” she stated absently, “The only ones to call me by both names are those I am not familiar with or fond of.”

 

“Alright…Macha.”

 

“I am here because I think of you constantly and wish to know my only child. Infertility is a problem among the sidhe, and try as I might, I have not been able to reproduce with a male of my own kind. Also, from time to time, I have felt the pull of your magic, stretching like a sleepy cat in the sun. I have been neglectful as a mother thus far, but I believe that it is important you learn this side of yourself. To have a weapon but not know how to use it is to court death.” At this, Macha suddenly looked firm and certain. She nodded her head as though agreeing with herself.

 

“So you’ve come to…?”

 

“Train you. Teach you.”

 

Hunter was silent. Then an idea occurred to her. “Won’t somebody come looking if you’re gone for too long?”

 

“No,” Macha replied, “I am supposed to be on assignment in the area. No one will wonder.”

 

Hunter frowned as she digested that little nugget of information. “You must be very well-liked and trusted to be so autonomous in our world.”

 

At that, Macha appeared to puff up, sticking out her meager chest and drawing her spine even straighter. “I am first in line for the throne should the queen, my sister Morrigan, perish, though I would never wish ill on my beloved sister.” For a moment she looked around the room as though expecting something to jump out and bite her, then she smiled reassuringly and relaxed.

 

“So, daughter—“

 

“Hunter,” she cut in before Macha could continue.

 

“Hunter,” Macha repeated as though she was testing it out, then she seemed to nod to herself in acceptance, “You must have many questions for me.” Hunter had the feeling that she was in for another sleepless night and insisted that she go make some coffee. “Very well, if you must,” Macha conceded with a flippant air about her.

 

 

**TBC…**


	5. Chapter 5

**Cougar Tales**

**Chapter Five**

 

Author: Lily Zen

 

Rating: M

 

Warnings: Cussing

 

 

 

Disclaimer: Supernatural isn’t mine.

 

 

She was unbelievably tired, but too jacked up on caffeine to sleep. Macha was ‘bedded down’—seriously, that’s what she’d said—in Gran’s room. If Hunter hung off of her small twin mattress, Macha would have touched the floor. She figured that the fae woman had to be at least six feet tall. She was enormous! Built like one of those Euro supermodels. Hunter scoffed in disgust and angrily stabbed the channel button on the television. It moved sluggishly forward from late night talk shows to infomercials to news programs.

 

Full of a jittery sort of energy, she stood up and walked into her room. Moving impossibly fast, Hunter stripped off her old clothes and pulled on a pair of tight jeans, red high heels, and a black sleeveless shirt that scooped low to show an enticing amount of cleavage. Knowing it would be cooler at night, she also slid on a short black leather coat.

 

It was just after one in the morning when she walked through the door of Keg’s for the second time that day. Emma wouldn’t be working anymore, but somebody else would be and they’d be just as willing to feed her a couple drinks before closing time.

 

The place was filled with regulars and tired second shifters. Donnie, the town drunk, was holding court on his usual bar stool, slamming back shots of cheap whiskey and beer. His sidekick, Ben, was sitting next to him with a collection of empty beer bottles in front of him and another in his hand. Between them lay an empty basket of jalapeno poppers. Donnie and Ben had been best friends since childhood and getting into trouble for just as long. They did everything together, shared everything, even Ben’s wife, much to his surprise. Even that hadn’t been enough to split up the duo. The woman had been kicked to the curb, sure, but not their friendship.

 

Hunter grinned as she saw them and greeted them with an enthusiastic whoop. “Hey, ya’ll!” They stood up and there was a lot of hugging and back-thumping. Somebody pinched her ass, she didn’t know who, but she knew they didn’t mean anything by it. Just habit. When they released her, the grizzled pair called over the bartender, Vickie Connelly, who had graduated school a year or two before Hunter, and told her to pour shots. “And get this girl a drink, goddammit! Ain’t never seen nobody look so parched before in my life!” Donnie added, thumping his fist on the bar.

 

She shook with laughter as Vickie leveled a stare at Donnie that would’ve cowed a lesser, more sober man in a heartbeat. She tugged her sandy blond hair into a ponytail, and her sleeveless tee revealed strong, tanned arms, probably from unloading liquor shipments. Then Vickie looked at Hunter with a slightly less glacial stare and asked, “Whatta ya want?”

 

“A double shot of top shelf tequila and a MGD.”

 

“Tap or bottle?”

 

“Bottle.”

 

Vickie was prompt and she even came back with Donnie and Ben’s shots. They said cheers and tossed them back, and Hunter took her beer with her further into the bar. She greeted a few people she knew from way back when, acquaintances and the like.

 

Hunter wasn’t very good at self-analysis. At best, she was avoidant. Ruminating on past events and feelings was not an activity she enjoyed. Instead she sought to distract herself from those thoughts and let her dreams subconsciously work out her worries. It was a tactic that had always served her well in the past, like when her grandfather died, when her dad went missing, and when odd things would occur, like her uncanny good luck and persuasive abilities, and when she would wake up with the sense that something was happening that she just couldn’t see.

 

Of course, Macha had explained all that as being a part of her fae heritage. “You’re stronger than I thought you’d be,” Macha had mused almost to herself, “You demonstrate an innate ability with earth and air elements. I think you would even be strong enough to have an Other form.” Hunter had squelched down the niggling feeling of guilt she felt at being made a liar. Not a magic user, indeed.

 

Her wandering thoughts returned to her when she spotted Dean…whatever his real name was…at the end of the bar, chatting up a pretty waitress named Carrie. They had gone to high school, though Carrie had been a year behind her. She smiled to herself as she remembered the way Carrie had tried to steal Chris away. In vain, she might add. The only thing Chris had wanted from Carrie was a roll in the hay. Afterward, he’d told Hunter about it and complained of how it wasn’t even worth the subterfuge. _“She laid there like a mattress, all smiling and comfortable, and no matter what I did, it just wasn’t working!”_ Hunter giggled allowed as she heard Chris’ words in her head. At the time she’d been furious that he’d slept with Carrie, but upon his recounting of the horrible encounter, she’d decided that revenge could wait. Perhaps the bad sex had been punishment enough.

 

However, Hunter thought as she eyed Carrie—with her pretty blond hair pinned up on her head in big, looping curls, her tanned skin, and blue eyes, and huge tits straining the fabric of her shirt (Had they been that big in school? She couldn’t remember…)—talking to Dean with the same look in her eyes that she used to give Chris throughout senior year, that it was high time Carrie got hers. She smiled widely, shrugged off her jacket, and swaggered over with a toothy smile.

 

“Hey, Dean, how’s it going?” she purred, sliding into the stool on his other side. He looked over at her, blinked, and then a slow smile spread across his face too. He’d definitely been hitting the sauce, but he wasn’t drunk yet, just a little slower than usual. Still, he couldn’t mistake the look on Hunter’s face—it was a woman who was interested.

 

“Hi, Hunter,” he greeted her, “Going good. You?”

 

“Rough night,” she replied, tipping back her head for a healthy swig of beer.

 

“Sorry to hear that. Have you met my friend Carrie?” he asked, not really seeing why he shouldn’t include her in their conversation. After all, Carrie was a sure thing. Hunter was a wild card still.

 

Hunter peered around Dean at Carrie. She made an effort to pretend that she didn’t recognize her, that she was searching her memory banks for the insignificant sliver Carrie occupied. Her head cocked to the side. Finally, it seemed that Carrie could take no more. She smiled, her puffy, pink-glossed lips stretching in a way that was comical to Hunter, and gently prompted, “We went to high school together.”

 

“Ohhhh,” Hunter crowed, exaggerating the moment her fake light bulb turned on, “You were that girl who always followed Chris around! Gosh, I remember now. I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you at first. Weren’t you a brunette back then?”

 

Carrie’s face colored and Hunter wondered idly just which remark had hit a nerve. Was it her initial forgetfulness? Or her pointed mention of Chris? Or the slight barb at Carrie’s carpet not matching the drapes? Either way Hunter was satisfied. Trying to play off her embarrassment, Carrie laughed, though it was strained and said, “Well, you know, change is good. Blondes have more fun, after all.”

 

Hunter shrugged her slender, white shoulders and let her smile turn the slightest bit more flirtatious, more for Dean’s benefit than Carrie’s. “I don’t know, I think I have plenty of fun.” She winked at Dean in a way that said just what kind of fun she preferred and laughed. Carrie giggled nervously and pressed herself closer to Dean, and that’s how Hunter knew that she was feeling threatened.

 

Dean was grinning merrily, looking like a cross between the proverbial kid in a candy store and somebody watching a tennis match. He was waiting to see how Carrie would respond or if Hunter was going to hit another zinger over before she got the chance.

 

So because he was expectant, of course Hunter surprised him. “So Carrie, what’ve you been doing since graduation?” she asked, turning slightly to face her a little better, but in the process pressing her thigh up against his. Carrie looked as surprised as he felt. Then she smiled in a pleased sort of way. “Oh, I went to cosmetology school. Accredited and everything!”

 

She sounded simple and sweet, which Dean had known from the start, but when you compared it to Hunter’s sharp wit and cynicism, it made Carrie seem stupid, which she wasn’t. She was just a simple kind of person.

 

Hunter frowned and asked, “Then what the hell are you doing working here? No offense, honey, but this isn’t a salon.”

 

Carrie flushed again, and that time Dean jumped in to defend her, “Aw, c’mon, Hunter, now that was just mean and you know it.” Hunter slashed him a look that said I-will-skin-you-alive. All traces of her honey-sweet flirtatiousness were gone. He chose to follow the advice that went hand in hand with that look and shut up, though he did have to bite his lower lip to keep from smiling.

 

While Dean and Hunter were involved in a staring contest, Carrie piped up. “It’s no big deal, Dean. I needed extra money. I got two kids at home and wasn’t quite making ends meet. You remember Cooper Townsend? Well, me and Cooper got married about two years after high school. We’re divorced now, and I’m having a heck of a time getting child support out of him. That’s why I got two jobs.” She smiled widely.

 

Hunter felt like a jackass and tried not to show it. She smiled back.

 

Dean looked at her as though to say ‘I told you so.’

 

Hunter, in response, drained the rest of her beer and called the bartender over for a refill and another double shot of Cabo Wabo. As she swallowed the tangy booze, she admitted to herself that she was in a pisser of a mood, and she wanted to make somebody else miserable too. Still, she was being mean to Carrie, and for no reason than an old grudge held over ancient history. Jesus, she was a bitch.

 

Carrie was asking Dean how he knew Hunter. Apparently she thought Dean was with Animal Control. He explained how he and his partner were researching the cougar killings. She was appropriately scared and awed. Hunter was sickened. ‘It’s a fucking cougar,’ she thought to herself, ‘Not a rabid lion.’

 

Finally, it seemed that Carrie needed to go do her job and Hunter ordered another double. Dean slanted a look at her and then asked seriously, “Okay, what’s your deal? Not that I mind being the chew toy in your bitch-fight, but now you’ve given up even pretending to be interested in me.”

 

“Ego hurting?” she shot back scathingly, slamming her MGD.

 

Dean looked thoughtful. “Just a little,” he admitted and then added, “Seriously, what’s wrong?”

 

She looked at him very carefully and then leaned in dramatically to whisper to him, “My long-lost mother showed up tonight. She’s a fairy. Literally.” Hunter pulled back, met Dean’s questioning eyes and nodded in all seriousness. They both ordered shots that time.

 

“Wow,” he said after they’d both set down their empty shot glasses, “What a mind-fuck.”

 

“You’re telling me,” Hunter responded dryly, “Oh, and apparently I’m very magically well-endowed for a half-breed.” She snorted derisively through her nose. “And she’s going to stay with me for awhile to teach me how to use it.”

 

“That’s…”

 

“Fucked up? I know.”

 

As their conversation hit a lull, Hunter lit a cigarette and concentrated on her MGD. She idly turned the bottle, smearing the condensation on the bar a little more, and picked at the label with her thumb nail. “If it makes you feel any better,” Dean spoke up, startling her, “I think my dad may have made a deal with a demon to save my life.”

 

“Ouch,” she responded appropriately, wincing sympathetically, “That’s shitty. Talk about a guilt trip, hey?”

 

“Yeah…”

 

“Yeah…” Hunter was feeling appropriately self-pitying and firmly walked herself over to Camp Distraction before she could really start wallowing in it. “So, Dean, what are you doing after bar close?”

 

He looked up from his drink with raised eyebrows, and said slowly, “Nothing. Why?”

 

She grinned, spun her shot glass in a circle around her finger. “You wanna fuck?”

 

Dean’s jaw worked, clearly at a loss for words.

 

“That is what you came here for, right?”

 

When he finally said something is was, “ _Why_? You don’t even like me.”

 

“Never said that. I don’t know you well enough to like or dislike you, but I like the look of you and I think you know your way around a woman’s body. I have an itch to find out if I’m right about that intimation.” Hunter sipped her beer, eyeing Dean over the rim, waiting to find out what he would say.

 

 

It was a short walk from the bar to the motel where Dean had his temporary home, and they were making fast time. Then she realized that Sam would probably be asleep in the room and that they’d have to rent another room for the night, which Hunter wasn’t too keen about. She couldn’t take Dean back to her place ‘cause her creepy fairy mom was there. Thinking fast, her hand shot out and tugged on Dean’s arm.

 

He looked at her questioningly.

 

“This way,” she said mischievously and led him down a side street. It was hardly lit and everyone’s lights were out for the night.

 

“Where are we going?” Dean asked suspiciously, still following her, hanging back a step or two.

 

Hunter smiled gamely, chirping, “You’ll see.” They had to cut through somebody’s backyard and hop a fence, but then they were located in a secluded children’s playground. “This isn’t the public entrance, of course, but it’s faster than going all the way around the neighborhood and then coming back up.”

 

“A playground?” Dean looked around with skeptical eyes, “What? You felt the urge for a little late-night swinging?”

 

“No, stupid. Sam’s in the motel room, right?”

 

“Right.”

 

“There’s a fairy at my house.”

 

“Right…” Man, he was slow on the uptake.

 

“Which means we’d need to get another room, ‘cause I don’t fuck in back seats,” Hunter stated like he should already know these things.

 

“Oh,” Dean replied, “So we’re gonna fuck in a park?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“Great…” he drawled sarcastically and watched as Hunter flitted up onto the playground equipment.

 

“Oh, come on, Dean, don’t take yourself so seriously!” she cried just before she disappeared into a tube slide. She shot out again a moment later, laughing and patting down her staticky hair. Then she saw Dean standing exactly where he’d been and she frowned a little. With a quick shrug, Hunter’s jacket slipped off her shoulders, and she tossed it up onto a high, wide platform that was the launching point for the playground’s biggest slide while her long legs ate up the ground between herself and the attractive guy she was intent on having that night.

 

Standing toe to toe, Hunter fisted Dean’s jacket and smiled up at him. “Play with me,” she said, though there was a look in her eyes and a heat in her tone that turned the innocent words into an invitation to do delightfully sinful things right there in the out of doors. He was drawn in by her and the simple scent of whatever she’d washed her hair with that day, head slowly lowering. She licked her lips and then when he was close enough she licked his too. Dean’s inhalation was sharp, and he slanted his mouth across hers right after as if to make up for his surprise.

 

Dean’s kisses were like nothing else Hunter had ever experienced. Sure, she’d kissed a lot of guys in her day, but most of the time they seemed to be completely unaware of how to elicit a response in a woman just from his mouth on hers. They figured it was enough to stick their tongue in and wiggle it around and more than once the rule ‘more is better’ had seemed to apply to their technique. Not Dean. Shit, Dean kissed like he’d spent years of his life getting a Ph.D. in the subject, varying pressure and intensity and using his tongue in ways that made her arms circle around his neck and cling. Then every once in awhile, he’d pull back for a breath and dive back in. Her knees were weak and her panties were damp.

 

Fuck. Hunter pulled back and shot him a grin. “Come on, Dean…Jesus Christ, what the fuck is your last name? It’s not really that stupid ‘Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid’ shit, is it?” She made a face that made him laugh.

 

“Winchester,” he finally told her.

 

She eyed him up and down and finally nodded succinctly. “It suits.” Then she turned on her heel and took the small staircase up onto the playset. Dean found his gaze locked lasciviously onto her derriere the whole time, and he was very aware that just that little bit of kissing had him at half-chub.

 

So he did the only thing he really could at that point and followed.

 

 

TBC…

 


End file.
